The Wicked Billionaire--A Billionaire SEAL Romance

by Jackie Ashenden

  But she couldn’t say that to him, she just couldn’t. “Your energy,” she said instead, somewhat hesitantly. “There was an interesting … energy in the way you were hitting that punching bag that I wanted to see if I could capture.”

  His gaze went to the piece of paper she was holding in her hands. “What kind of energy?”

  Grace bit her lip. She found it difficult talking about her paintings, mainly because half the time she didn’t know herself what she was trying to capture until the painting itself had begun to take form. It was usually a feeling that sparked it, a feeling she wanted to explore. But she didn’t really want to tell him that because first, he probably wouldn’t understand, and second, the feelings he was sparking in her were not ones she wanted to tell him about.

  She didn’t even want to think about them herself.

  “I’m not quite sure I can put it into words,” she said, going for a half-truth as she looked down at the drawing herself. Lucas, standing there with his arm drawn back, ready to send another powerful punch to the bag, his body tense, his face fierce with concentration. “But it’s something I’ve been exploring in my work for the past year or so.”

  “What something?”

  She looked up at him.

  He was standing not far away from her, dressed in a pair of worn jeans that clung to his lean hips, and a soft-looking black sweater, his bike jacket thrown over the top. Simple, casual clothes that only seemed to emphasize his intense, masculine beauty.

  The still way he was standing in combination with that intense, focused stare was somehow completely fascinating, making her fingers itch to put pencil to paper and start drawing him. See if she could capture his intensity in stillness the way she hadn’t been able to when he was in motion.

  “What? You’re suddenly interested in art now?” She couldn’t quite keep the defensiveness out of her voice.

  “I’m interested in anything that concerns me and you trying to draw me concerns me, obviously.”

  Letting out a breath, she balled up the paper again and let it drop onto the floor. She hadn’t told anyone about the idea she’d been exploring with her paintings, not even Griffin. Not because she was embarrassed or anything, it was simply something she’d wanted to keep for herself. Yet now, with Lucas’s icy stare fixed to hers, she started to feel self-conscious about it.

  “I was thinking about the idea of a hero and what being a hero meant.” She waved a hand at the paintings leaning against the walls. “All these guys are examples of everyday heroes and I liked the idea of exploring different aspects of heroism with each one.”

  His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the various canvases. The cop leaning against a streetlight, caught in a moment of quiet reflection. The firefighter shrugging on his jacket, his gaze directed upwards, a grim look on his face as if the particular job he was heading out to was a dangerous one. Griffin, her husband, looking in the mirror and sharing a joke …

  Lucas’s blue eyes pinned her again. “I’m not a hero, Grace. So why the fuck are you drawing me?”

  * * *

  He wasn’t quite sure why the thought of her drawing him was quite so confronting. Or why he wanted to know her reasons for doing so. Yet he found himself pushing her about it all the same.

  She was standing in a pool of light coming through a corner of the stained glass, the colors of the window turning her hair a brilliant red-gold and picking up the sheen in the silky fabric of the tunic-type thing she was wearing. There was so much color to her, the deep turquoise of her tunic contrasting with the drifts of her hair. Black leggings covered her long, slender legs and her feet were bare, her toenails painted in sparkly gold nail polish

  She was all golds and reds and blues, an explosion of color, like a firework against a dead black sky.

  He shouldn’t have come up to find her, he knew that. He couldn’t even think why he had, only that when he’d come in from yet another fruitless day of trying to find the people who were after her, he’d been inexplicably drawn up the stairs to the little room she’d claimed as a studio.

  She’d been standing in front of that painting of Griffin, uncharacteristically still, her hair an apricot-colored frizzy waterfall that nearly reached the small of her back. And it had struck him that he had no idea why he was there, since he had nothing new to tell her. So he’d said the first thing that had come into his head—about fish of all the fucking things.

  Then his obsessive neatness had kicked in as he’d spotted those balled-up pieces of paper on the floor and he’d had to pick one of them up, spreading it out to see what it was. And looked down to see himself captured in charcoal, about to deliver another hit to the punching bag.

  A streak of heat had gone straight down his spine, the picture a shock for some reason. As if she’d revealed something about him he didn’t want anyone else to see. Something deeply private and painful.

  How she had seen that, let alone been able to put it on to paper, he didn’t know. But he wanted to find out what the hell she thought she was doing, because he didn’t want her doing it again. Most especially if it was something to do with all this hero crap. Because he wasn’t a hero and he never had been.

  “Look, if you don’t want me to draw you then I won’t.” She had a pencil in one hand and was turning it over and over with her fingers in a continuous movement. “I didn’t know you’d—”

  “That’s not what I asked,” he interrupted, in no mood for bullshit. “Answer the damn question. Why were you drawing me?”

  Her eyes were the same color as extra fine single-malt Scotch whisky, a rich, luminous amber, and her fingers kept turning that fucking pencil over and over. And he wished he weren’t so fucking aware of these tiny little details about her, because they were driving him crazy.

  She let out a breath and abruptly stuck the pencil behind her ear. Her hands lifted in a “stop” gesture. She wasn’t wearing so many bracelets today, he noticed. Just a couple of gold ones mixed with a blue beaded one and another with black beads.

  “Okay, okay,” she said quickly. “I don’t know why you give a shit about why I’m drawing you, but I’ll tell you. I need some inspiration for the final piece of my collection. The piece that’s going to tie all this lot together.” She threw out a hand toward the big canvas that had stayed blank for the past couple of days. “I need to finish it before the exhibition and I’ve been having trouble with starting. Drawing you was supposed to help me figure out what I’m going to do.”

  He frowned. “How does drawing me help?”

  “It gets me thinking about what I might want to put on that canvas.” She moved, bending to gather up the balls of paper she’d discarded, evidently all pictures of him that she hadn’t liked. “The day you met me at the art gallery I’d been intending to go and find some inspiration. Just walk around the city and people-watch, that kind of thing. But obviously I can’t do that now, so I have to take inspiration where I can find it.”

  Lucas thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the sharp needle of electricity he always felt around her sliding under his skin yet again.

  Christ, why the hell was he asking her all these questions? Why the hell did it matter to him whether she drew him or not? It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to do, after all. He should be contacting Van for a start, because it had been a good few days since Leo’s Alehouse, where they’d received their last letters from their father, and as he’d been made director of Tate Oil and Gas along with his brothers, he probably should see what kind of corporate shit he had to do.

  He also needed to text Wolf to find out what the fuck was up with him, since he’d been maintaining radio silence too. The way he’d left Leo’s five days earlier, so abruptly and without any explanation, was a bit of a fucking worry, though Wolf would have gotten in touch if he’d needed help. At least, he should have.

  Except Lucas found he wasn’t in any real hurry to contact his brothers. He wanted to know more about these stupid goddamn pa
intings, which only slid that sharp little needle deeper

  “Do you need to finish that painting?” His voice had an edge to it he couldn’t seem to smooth out. “You’ve already got twelve of them. Surely that’s enough.”

  Grace went over to the wastebasket in the corner, emptying all the paper into it, then she straightened and gave him a look that told him plainly he had no idea what he was talking about. “No,” she said dryly. “I can’t do that. And no, I can’t explain why I can’t. I’m … missing something from the series and I won’t know what it is until I start painting.”

  Jesus. So this was a job she was starting blind. With no idea of what she was doing or what direction to take it in. It was the very antithesis of everything he did and he couldn’t even begin to comprehend it.

  “How can you not know?” he demanded, not sure why it was so vital she give him a reason other than the fact that every piece of information she gave him was information he could use to potentially protect her better.

  She pulled her hair over one shoulder, and as she combed through it with her fingers he noticed her fingernails were painted too. Dark blue with tiny golden hearts.

  Why the fuck are you noticing her fingernails?

  He had no idea. He had no goddamn idea at all.

  “I just don’t,” she said, as though it weren’t a big deal at all. “It’s a … feeling. That’s as best as I can describe it. I just know that the series isn’t done and that there’s something I need to tie it all together. That will make it all make sense.”

  A feeling. Jesus Christ

  “What do you need for inspiration?” he heard himself ask, even though it really didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

  She looked away, scanning around the room as if she was actually looking around for the answer to the question. Then her gaze came back to his all of a sudden. Her brows arrowed down as her eyes narrowed, her focus suddenly intent. “Actually,” she said slowly. “I think I might need you.”

  Lucas wasn’t often surprised, since being surprised tended to lead to being dead, especially while on a mission. But he was surprised now. He felt it like a splash of cold water.

  He stiffened. “Me?”

  She was moving toward him now, her stare intent in a way that was familiar to him. Mostly because it was the same stare he used himself when focusing on a target. Except she didn’t have a rifle. She only had a pencil.

  “Yes.” She came even closer, staring up into his face, her gaze running over him in a strangely impersonal way, as if he were one of her canvases. “Yes, I think it’s got to be you.” She moved to his left, still staring at him, and began to circle around behind him.

  Instantly his hackles rose and he turned with her, years of instinct against showing anyone his back kicking in. “What are you doing?”

  She stopped and blinked. “Oh, sorry. I was … looking.” Her cheeks had gotten flushed and he realized she was standing quite close to him and that he could smell the dry, faintly apple scent of her. “Sorry. It’s only that I’ve been looking for some inspiration for weeks now and you … might be it.”

  His hands itched to touch a long skein of hair that had fallen over one shoulder, see if it was as soft as it looked, and he knew if he moved even the slightest bit he’d do just that. So he kept himself very, very still and only asked, “Why me?”

  She clasped her hands, her elegant fingers with their pretty nails lacing together. “Like I said. It’s your energy. Plus…” She hesitated. “You’re also the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

  The words hit him strangely and, like everything to do with Grace Riley, he had no idea why. Yes, he was aware of his looks. Aware that they made both men and women stare at him. When he’d been a teenager he’d gotten a lot of attention from girls, and when he was older he’d gotten a lot of attention from women. Another man might have enjoyed the attention or even used it, but Lucas didn’t. He ignored it. Because looks meant nothing. Less than nothing. His looks had nothing to do with how well he did his job and so they didn’t matter to him in any way.

  Except now, looking into Grace’s eyes, big and golden, he felt something tighten inside him. An emotion he didn’t recognize. “Looks are nothing.” He kept his voice cold and even, ignoring the twist of feeling in his gut. “They don’t mean anything.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s never had a day’s plainness in his entire life.” The words were tart and he didn’t miss the note of hurt in them.

  Strange. Why would she be hurt by that?

  “My looks don’t affect my aim and that’s all that matters to me.” Why was he explaining himself? “And if they don’t affect your ability to put paint on a canvas then they shouldn’t matter to you too.”

  She flushed and glanced away. “Yes, well, we weren’t talking about me. We were talking about you.” She looked back at him. “You kind of owe me, you know.”

  “Owe you? I owe you for what?”

  “For sticking me in this apartment and not letting me out.”

  Unfamiliar irritation twisted inside him. “We’ve already discussed this. It’s for your protection.”

  “Yeah, I get it, I know. But you also made me resign from my job and then paid all my bills without asking.”

  No, he still didn’t get why she was annoyed about that. The job, sure. But the bills? “I’ll make it an IOU then, if that would make you happier about it.” Not that he needed the money paid back to him. Not when he had the Tate billions at his disposal. But if she was going to be stubborn about it and cut off her long, elegant nose to spite her face then he wasn’t going to argue.

  Grace slid her pencil out from behind her ear, then lifted it to her mouth, taking the tip of it between small white teeth. “I don’t want an IOU.”

  He couldn’t seem to take his gaze off her mouth, the way her full, red lips closed around the pencil as she chewed on it meditatively.

  “What do you want then?” His voice sounded thick to his own ears.

  Grace chewed a second longer, then she took the pencil out of her mouth. “I want you to let me draw you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Grace sat on the floor in the main living area of the apartment, letting the cold gray light of the winter afternoon filter through the stained glass of the large rose window, watching it become warm and golden as it stretched over her bare legs.

  It was warm inside, mainly because she’d finally figured out how to jack up the heating. Apparently, Lucas liked it cold, no surprises there, though sadly for him, she didn’t. Her own apartment had crappy heating, plus it was expensive, so the luxury of being somewhere warm was one she was going to enjoy while she could.

  She tilted her head, examining the tiny flowers she’d drawn painstakingly with a toothpick on her toenails. Nail art was something she did when she wasn’t inspired to paint or when she needed something mindless to do to calm her racing brain, and her brain had been racing a lot of late. Good thing she’d brought her small collection of nail polishes from her apartment, because she really needed to calm the hell down.

  Picking up a clean toothpick, Grace dipped it into some gold polish and began to draw even tinier golden leaves on the stems of the small silver roses, trying to make her brain focus on that and not on Lucas Goddamn Tate.

  She should never have asked him to pose for her. Never. It was just that he’d kept pushing and pushing, wanting to know why she’d drawn him and then asking more questions about her painting. And of course it had been years since anyone had shown any interest in hearing about it, so she’d opened her big mouth and started going on about feelings and energy and . . and all kinds of ridiculous things.

  Then he’d asked her what she needed for inspiration and she’d looked at him and it had hit her like a lightning bolt, the way it did sometimes. That what she needed was him. Not for her big painting, no, but he was in her head and the only way she could get him out was to draw him. And maybe once she had, she’d discover what it was that she reall
y wanted to paint.

  Asking him to pose for her had seemed like a good idea at the time. Except then he’d flatly refused, turned around, and walked out of the room without another word.

  It had been so infuriating she’d thrown her pencil at his retreating back.

  He’d stayed away from her the rest of the day, spending more time in his gym, and then had gone downstairs to the basement area of the apartment, doing God knows what, and no, she wasn’t interested in finding out.

  Today he was gone by the time she’d woken up—yet again—and she’d had the whole day to sit and stew. And maybe panic a bit, just quietly, in the privacy of her own head. Because the days were ticking by and she still hadn’t started her painting and she had this exhibition coming up in two weeks—no, a week and a half now. Plus Lucas hadn’t made any progress on tracking down the people after her—at least, that’s what he’d told her—so she had no idea what was going to happen if they weren’t found by the time her exhibition came around.

  Presumably, he’d try to stop her from attending.

  She scowled at the toenail she was currently painting. If he did that she’d kick him in the nuts or dose his drink with sleeping tablets and run away.

  And then maybe you’d get kidnapped and tortured? Good plan.

  Her jaw tightened. Yes, okay, there was that. Lucas might be an infuriating dick—which was annoying—but she certainly felt safe here in the apartment with him around.

  Still, she couldn’t miss this exhibition. She wouldn’t. This was what she’d been aiming for ever since her father had first taught her how to draw and she wasn’t going to let it slip through her fingers just because a bunch of arms dealers were after her.

  Oh yeah, and that was another thing to feel irritated and antsy about. Lucas had no information about why Griffin had been running illegal arms deals and kept telling her the whys didn’t matter. Only the reality of the situation did, because it was the reality that needed to be handled. She’d disagreed, only to have him tell her that it was pointless having this discussion because he didn’t know Griffin’s motivation anyway and, now he was dead, they never would.